A.K. Reader: Conceptual Repatterning, Saturn/Uranus in Sagittarius, Part IV

Saturn/Uranus in Sagittarius

Conceptual Repatterning

Part IV


Fourth in a five-part series published as Saturn turns to go direct, and one full Saturn cycle later; see Introduction, Part I,  Part II, and Part III



Two letters came in the mail today, both commenting on Part 3 of this series. One was from a woman, the other from a man. Hers said the article was “a great one . . . the best yet . . . eye to eye . . . wheels in and of ourselves . . .!” His hoped I would “merge this article with the next so it is comprehensible to the reader. Without a follow-up, it looses [sic] any meaning to me.”

In a single day I receive two extreme and contradictory responses to what I wrote. Each one affects me; I oscillate back and forth — flush with pride, flush with embarrassment . . . the woman inside me glows with appreciation; the inner man criticizes, castigates . . . which do I believe? Who to trust?

Here I go again, caught up in yet another duality, wondering which side do I come down on? The question is moot, of course. I’m “new age,” I know that, somehow, I must embrace both. But this abstract knowing does not erase my personal dilemma. Male and female are at war within me. And these letters — such exact projections of my inner life! So now what? How to harness the dynamics of this living contradiction?

My dilemma is appropriate. This series is devoted to exploring what one could call the very Archetype of Contradiction, Saturn conjunct Uranus, now current in the heavens for two full years. In these articles I hone in on various ways we may experience and incorporate the fruits of contradiction into our lives.

Rereading the two letters, I think of the man with Saturn, his need for directness, definition, form; the seeming inability to “loosen” (see above) the membranes that separate one concept from another, and thereby enlarge the sense of what something can mean. And I see Uranus, yes, as a woman, her capacity to inhabit vast open spaces, a willingness to accept — yea, even to celebrate — indefiniteness, dreams, the way we sometimes circle round and round an event endlessly, each return to the same point a deepening into those secret interior spaces where everything merges and fertilizes everything else.

[Reader be aware: My view of Uranus is somewhat Neptunian. This is not surprising, since I was born during December 1942, when an exact trine aspect (120°) was operating between these two planets in air signs. Uranus and Neptune harmonize fully within me; I live them as a single voice — endowing ideas with feeling, feeling my way into the deeper meaning of ideas.]

In this 4th article on Saturn/Uranus, I take a sociological point of view, noting certain dualities or contradictions that exist, both within myself and among my closest neighbors, those who live in the shadow of the Tetons in Western Wyoming. In following this approach, I attempt to better understand — and eventually, to help heal — divergences I notice within new age attitudes toward spirituality.

 The Grandmothers’ Dance

A woman kneels at the center of a room on a dark cloth spread out on a polished, hardwood floor. Silent, utterly absorbed, she removes tiny objects — stones, feathers, crystals, flowers — from leather and velvet pouches and arranges them on the cloth in a semi-circle around her. Directly in front of her lies an enormous phallic crystal, facing North, lined up with the Tetons.

I am sitting on the floor with 30 other women in a circle around her. Our backs lean against blue walls. We are talking quietly among ourselves and watching Brooke Medicine Eagle, a Lakota medicine woman, beautiful, with high cheekbones and a hooked nose and long black braided hair. I notice her hands. Big, strong, expressive, intimate, these hands bond her energy to the energy of anything they reach for. With utmost concentration, she is slowly and carefully placing each object in relation to others on the cloth according to some hidden inner order.

The altar is completed. Brooke looks up, smiles widely, begins to speak. There is much she has to tell us this evening, she says, her energy uncoiling to a standing position, those hands punctuating each word.

“Can you remember old pictures of signing ceremonies between white soldiers and Indians?” she asks. “On one side stands the general surrounded by his officers, lined up in a row. On the other side stands the row of braves, flanking their chief. And behind the row of Indian men,” she continues, her voice growing stronger, “stands a row of white-haired women. The grandmothers. Female elders of the tribe. They were not there to negotiate. Rather, their continuous silent presence was to remind Indian men: Any treaty you make with the white man must be such as to not harm any living thing.”

The grandmothers, Brooke tells us, carried the wisdom of the tribe. They no longer menstruated; they “held their blood” — and because they did, their power was great.

The younger women, during their menstrual flow, would retire to the “moon lodge,” to rest and to dream. This time coincided with the new moon, a time of new beginning and of cleansing, when the veil between the visible and invisible thins to the point where the women could easily pass beyond. During these few days each month, they would enter the spirit world through the center of their beings, their wombs. Through their wombs they attuned to the great mother, Earth, and learned her ways.

According to Lakota tradition, the female principle precedes the male. It is first, what must happen before anything else can. The female principle is the number before all numbers start. It is the womb, the starry night sky; it is the great void, the source of all possibility. Actual creation begins, she tells us, when lightning pierces the night sky. From this union, does all that manifests flow.

If, she continues, I were to spear you and twirl your body in the air, the exact point in which I would thrust my spear would be your womb; this is the center of your being. This is the point where you balance heaven and earth — whether you are biologically a woman or a man. She gets up and starts walking around the room, long soft leather moccasins treading the hardwood floor as surely as if it were a forest trail. Placing her hands to that center of herself, she outlines a triangle. We need to walk with that part of us leading, she tells us. Our wombs link us to our mother, and receive what she wants us to know. Instead, we tend to walk like the absent-minded professor! Brooke laughs, bends over, and walks head first, tottering from side to side. We all laugh too, seeing ourselves in this reflection.

Brooke stands up straight. Alert, balanced, again she walks steadily around the inside of our circle. Her eyes seek each of ours in turn. “We have moved from the center of our beings to the head, the forebrain,” she says, slowly, quietly: “We have severed our bonds with all living things.”

Brooke asks us to stand and form a circle with our arms around each other. She starts drumming, softly, to the four-beat rhythm of a human heartbeat. “Press your left foot into the floor with each dominant beat,” she says. “Your left foot links to your left side, the female side. As you press that foot to the floor you are making contact with Mother Earth, and she is pressing back. Now start moving in a circle, an inch at a time, still emphasizing that beat with the left foot.”

We begin to dance, slowly round and round, hearts and feet entraining to the drumming, 30 women in a circle, arms around each other, no beginning, no ending, left foot, left foot, left foot, entering our left sides, thinning that veil between the visible and the invisible, entranced.

“Now look at each woman in the circle, how beautiful she is, how individual . . . And now soften your eyes, let them lose focus, concentration, and see this woman circle as a circle of women everywhere, women anywhere, anytime. Become your mother dancing this heartbeat, become her mother, and hers. Go back through your foremothers, back to the first two-legged mother, beyond her to the four-leggeds, the winged creatures, beyond them to the tree people, the plant people, the rocks, the waters. Become the great mother, feel her wisdom, feel her pain.”

Next Day, Out Walking

It is Saturday morning, the day after the grandmothers’ dance. I sit curled in my easy chair, tensed, head down, concentrating. Frowning. I turn page after page of a thick blue paperback book, Alice Bailey’s Esoteric Astrology.

No use. Can’t seem to read today. My eyes keep losing focus, bouncing off the page. My head feels tight, constricted. And my body is growing increasingly restless, wants to move! I subdue it, forcefully, no! You must sit here, stay still, and read this! You still haven’t mastered Alice Bailey. What’s wrong with you? Are you lazy? Stupid?

Suddenly, without thinking, I close the book, get up, bundle up, start out on my daily walk. Today I walk even faster than usual, head first, body striving to keep pace with the debate raging inside. Once again I feel that war between the two ways I’m learning, the two roads I travel . . . the metaphysical and the aboriginal . . . so different, so opposed! Going up and down at once . . . up with my head, down with my body . . . Will I break in two? (Oh my God, is this the meaning of the dream I had last night? When my car broke into two separate pieces, front and back? And I knew it was due to my carelessness . . . Oh wow, there’s Saturn and Uranus operating again, in my dream. The car breaks — negative Uranus; my inattention — negative Saturn.) Hey! Stop thinking! You are walking now. Walk on. Pound those ideas from the brain through the body into the ground. Release that brain, let go, let go, breathe . . . in . . . out . . . in . . . out . . . Be the walking, be the breathing, left, right, in, out. Forget! Forget yourself. Become empty, become the air flowing through you, allow each in-breath to replenish you, each out-breath to clear out old ideas, cares, worry . . .

I have followed this same routine (Saturn) for 27 years, walking long distances, balancing, getting head to join with body for that one hour each day. “It keeps me out of the psychiatrist’s office,” I joke to those who ask — and laugh, ruefully, knowing just how true that is. My training has been left-brained, male, rational. I am the perfect example of Descartes’ mind/body split: I think, therefore I am. Therefore, only my thinking is me! For Descartes, the body and mind, though separate, worked in unison; they “paralleled” each other, he said. For me, they seem utterly opposed, body wanting to continually move and express, mind wanting to capture each movement, to fix it in place.

As usual, within one mile, hip and pelvic tension relax and my stride lengthens to the usual fast rhythmic Sagittarian pace so few of my friends can keep up with. I’m glad. I need this aloneness. Need this discipline. Feel very Saturnine today. Uptight. Can’t let my mind go. How to integrate Alice Bailey with Brooke Medicine Eagle? How to reconcile such an esoteric scholastic hierarchy with the simple Lakota way of being in the world.

It seems to me Alice Bailey deals from on high with what is here below. In order to read her, I must forget my body, deny its restless existence, and become pure thought, unadulterated by emotion, by concern, by anything but the processing of rarified ideas.

Much of what I read in astrology has that same character, if less extreme. I include here even the revered mentor of us humanistic and transpersonal astrologers, Dane Rudhyar. While there is a certain spare celestial beauty in his ever-enlarging and looping rhythms — with no concrete examples, nothing to bond it with what really happens here below. Pure thought. No passion. No life! And there’s the other extreme, too, an astrology that focuses too narrowly on mundane events, where the result is either gossipy or full of staccato facts. Here, in the intellectual polarity between the bloodless abstract and the trivialized concrete, is that same mind/body duality reflected. First, mind splits off from body; next, mind itself splits into two kinds of thinking, and neither one is alive.

As I walk, I look across four miles of snow-covered sage to the west, and am, as ever, awed by the sight of the snowy Tetons rising precipitiously from the valley floor. Boiling silver clouds pay peek-a-boo with the frozen north face of the Grand Teton. So high, so remote, cold stone and ice . . . and so indifferent to the play of human passion rippling out from each of us, linking us together, no matter how alone some of us may feel, here below.

Mountains have always been metaphors for both aloneness and lofty thought. Eastern monks leave householding behind to sit on them and commune with the gods — sometimes forever. Tourists stop their cars and try to capture the scene with cameras or video. At their next restaurant meal they may discuss what they saw out there for a few moments, fumbling for words, eyes taking on that misty faraway look humans are prey to. This longing, a yearning — but for what? what? — is what separates us from our wild animal friends.

Painters try to represent what mountains evoke in them. The Tetons have been painted and postcarded so many millions of times that their actual presence sometimes seems clichéd. Grandiose, two-dimensional Valhallian mountain scenes in ornate carved wooden frames dominate public walls in banks and law offices; they hang over living room mantelpieces and king-size beds . . . As we go about our daily business such paintings sometimes catch our busy eyes. They remind us of our more exalted possibilities . . . they numb us by the very familiarity of what is or should be so rare.

Some of us choose to place ourselves where such glory will be the constant vibrant background to our every heartbeat. It is precisely the extraordinary beauty of this still pristine land that draws us here in the first place. But how many of us acknowledge this place in the manner of Brooke Medicine Eagle — as a tiny but sacred spot on the skin of Mother Earth? And how many of us feel her, in our wombs?

But wait, wait . . . remember that day when I walked down out of Death Canyon, tired and alone. So tired that my mind slipped into my body, and gave my feet the lead. Remember the cool breeze, tunneling through the canyon, picking up the creek’s tumbling rush, rising and falling, caressing my ears with its music? And remember the one extraordinary moment when, for some unknown reason, I suddenly stopped walking, turned around, and looked up to the exact point where an eagle was soaring high over a spired ridge?

Yes. And remember another time, that soft spring afternoon, sitting on a rounded hillside of Shadow Mountain, looking out across three miles of valley to the Grand Teton? Remember lying back in that field of yellow, watching the clouds scud by? And remember turning over, my hands clutching plants, sticks, seeds, stones, body caressing full length the soil in its yearly awakening? Remember bursting into tears? And feeling so full, so alive, so sensual . . . yielding to earth as my beloved.

Times such as these are the exception. They are so intimate, so strange, so haunting . . . Like certain dreams at night, which pass into other dimensions altogether, these experiences in nature are so foreign to my usual waking dream that I have trouble even remembering them, much less putting them into words for others. And even if I could, I would be too embarrassed . . . until last night, that is, when Brooke reminded me of their value.

I speak of nature as my lover. Not poetically, not lyrically, but in reality. Encountering her in this manner is not something to be viewed, classified, evaluated, and, in some way, used. Rather, she is someone to be cherished, held, surrendered to. In opening to her we drink her in; we are charged by her presence, she is overwhelmingly real and alive.

Speaking of nature in this manner throws me outside the society I grew up in. Certainly, it is alien to my usual ways of walking on this planet, even now, now that I’m “new age.” And I’d bet that very few of even the more sensitive ones who live in this extraordinary mountain valley — who say they “love” the land, they “love it” here — really, in any full sense of that word, do. How often do we interact with nature as our lover? Aren’t we usually relating to her more with an eye as to how she can fulfill our individual desires?

Take the intense loner athlete, for example, who scales these mountains. He climbs straight up sheer rock — or ice — walls, mind over matter, to the top, where he overlooks everything, having conquered both gravity and his own body’s natural fear and pain. Most athletes here are equipment freaks as well; they blend a single-minded desire to get to the top with an exacting hi-tech attention to precisely which climbing shoes will offer the most frictional advantage, which materials in their clothing will “wick” sweat away.

Mind over matter. Brain over body. Tone that machine. Tune it up, make sure it’s hard — to go the distance, to scale the heights, to ski straight down steep powder slopes. Even athletes, seemingly most in tune with their bodies, obey the cultural command. Rather than flowing with nature and her ways, their bodies are designed and continually retooled to meet their owners’ rigid specifications. Nature’s extremes are viewed as challenges, to be conquered, dominated, controlled. Not just eggheads move with their heads first.

I think of the legends surrounding these jagged peaks, how they are likened to giant crystals, magnifying everything that goes on here. Of the great crystal caves rumored to lie somewhere inside the Grand Teton. Of the Great White Brotherhood which, it is whispered meets here each year in spirit form, on the 4th of July. I think of all the high spiritual books, including Alice Bailey’s, which this brotherhood is said to have inspired.

I think of one man in particular, he is here precisely because of these legends. Richard is so abstracted, so wrapped up in his mind, that he ignores his body altogether, noticing neither what it is wearing or the ground upon which it walks. His body, reflecting that lack of concern, is puffy, shapeless. (Like so many tourists’ bodies. During August especially. I notice that fully one out of every ten people walking the streets of Jackson is seriously obese.)

Athletes only seem to be body-oriented. Actually, most of them are mental, wanting total control over their bodies, treating them like machines. Some metaphysical people ignore their bodies; they are more obviously mental in orientation. The point is, neither of them FEEL nature, in their wombs. They would laugh at Brooke’s aboriginal point of view.

Then there are those who came here to use nature in blatant ways — to use her up. They carve up hills and river bottom land into “real” estate, and sell it, for profit. They build huge houses on five-acre tracts, or cluster condomaximums at river’s edge, and think of eco-nomics as if it is restricted to money.

This valley is crawling with real estate agents and others who obey the dictates of “progress.” What keeps them in check are the efforts of the Jackson Hole Alliance, whose members do seem to genuinely care about preserving wild lands. Unfortunately, they must spend an inordinate amount of time fighting the legalities of state, federal, and corporate claims for oil, mineral, grazing and deforestation “rights.” One cannot do battle with bureaucrats without, in some sense, becoming one. I watch this happen now, as the environmental movement comes of age, and pulls up its backpacking grassroots for the move to Washington, D.C.

Of related concern is the fate of the Great Bear, which during the past several years has come to national attention. As once vast tracts of true wilderness shrink to nearly nothing, as what is left gets carved into tiny bureaucratic fiefdoms with no common agenda, the grizzly’s normally wide-ranging habitat is so seriously disturbed that, as of 1986, there were only about 34 breeding sows remaining in Yellowstone Park. Yellowstone and Glacier Park are the only areas left in the contiguous 48 states still viable for the grizzly. If many had their way, these wildernesses would be gentled too, made user-friendly to man by destroying what few bears remain.

The poet Robert Bly spoke of what he termed the hidden “hairy man” within each man in a seminal article called “On Being A Man” (1982). Bly’s hairy man is a wild man, he has more in common with the grizzly than with either macho men or the gentle, “liberated” males escorting either feminists or each other today. We fear this hairy man, his genuine natural potency, as we fear the grizzly and his dream partner, the legendary yeti. We fear the wildness in ourselves. We fear our feelings — the joy, the passion, the rage, the surrender to our mother and the terrible pain inflicted upon her by our unnatural forebrained habits.

These feelings arise as we plug into our centers, our wombs. These feelings move us to change our ways and preserve life on earth. No amount of reading high spiritual — and astrological — material, no number of hours spent meditating in quiet contemplation will do it. Our minds and spirits may expand our awareness, but they do not originate anything.

Men and women alike, we are all male and female, creative and receptive. Each of us is mind and body, and within each of these, there are creative and receptive aspects. Receptive, we open to the ground, what our mother wants to give us; creative, we reach for the stars.

Midway between our head and our toes is our womb, our center. We are each the center of the universe, the still point of a turning world. Through our centers we link heaven to earth and balance ourselves. Saturn represents centripetal force, gravity, drawing us down. Uranus is centrifugal; spinning out like electrons, we fill the heavens with our wonder.

Finally, I am reminded of a good friend of mine, I will call him Coyote, as this most adaptive of wild creatures is his totem. Coyote is a dreamer and story-teller and music maker. His source is the waters of Boiling River at Mammoth, Montana in Yellowstone. His roots are aboriginal. Coyote feels more in common with the monkey than with the straight man role his civilized conscience still sometimes forces him to play.

Coyote’s “enviromentalism” is primal, pure; he doesn’t give a hoot about how to trace his way through a bureaucratic maze. Yet even he, who could teach us so much, seems confused. Coyote man! He who drums in tune with the pulsing geysers, he whose words and music soar like the thousands of pelicans that whirl in vortex formation over Yellowstone River — yet even Coyote said to me once, why worry about the planet, when we’re about to lift off the earth?

Coyote would forgo his aboriginal roots for a hi-tech future. He would solve the planetary crisis in the same way Tim Leary would (not to mention military industrial contractors); they look to technology to save us, and advocate peeling out of here in rockets. Born again Christians and fundamentalist Moslems can’t wait to leave either — for their various heavens elsewhere. What care have they for preserving our planetary nest?

Here I am, walking along head first, preoccupied; I wrestle with Alice Bailey and Brooke Medicine Eagle and wonder how the two shall join. Surrounding me are athletes and metaphysicians, artists and tourists, greedy ones and preservers, Coyote and the bureaucrats. Here we all are, living mostly in our minds, ignoring the mysterious life in our bodies, and the way they resonate with the larger body, our mother, Earth — the substance of which she is composed, the wild creatures upon her. We are in association — whether or not we know it — not just with each other, but with the trees and rocks and water and plants and soil and all the bear and deer and geese and swans and eagles and hawks and moose and elk and bison and other, more delicate and unnoticed beings inhabiting this magical land. Intense, individual, extreme, and full of contradiction, our energies are magnified by the giant crystalline Teton range. Blindly, but with hope, we grope haltingly towards a shared life in this small mountain valley, sixty miles long, twenty wide, population 10,000, on the western edge of Wyoming.

Return to the Grandmothers’ Dance

Uranus is the sky god, wild, electrifying, innovative — lightning piercing the night sky. Saturn is “reality,” social reality, civilized — form, in its actual manifestation. Uranus is the Grand Teton, a gigantic lightning rod. Saturn is the social roles we play down here below, who we think we are — the infamous forebrain.

Uranus above, Saturn below. Mountain above, valley below. Sky above, earth below. Mind above, body below. Alice Bailey above, Brooke Medicine Eagle below. Forebrain and womb. Male and female. Light and shadow. Nature and technology. Each of these a duality, polarized.

Without duality, there is nothing to balance. Polarity is a fact of consciousness, which is always, an awareness of something, a relation between the self and non-self. It is only when the teeter totter crashes to the ground lopsided that the balanced priority is disturbed, and are we, as a people, disturbed.

The mind/body teeter totter has crashed to the ground, leaving the mind high and dry. We need to balance metaphysics with aboriginal wisdom, our minds with our bodies. And we need to re-member our bodies for what they truly are — formed from the soil, continuous with mother nature and her laws.

I think back to the grandmothers’ circular dance, and remember the woman opposite me. She is the only one I see full on, rather than obliquely. She offers me the other side of the world, a direct frontal mirror. Our 180° “opposition” constitutes one of infinitely many that could people any circle. Each of us the endpoint of one diameter. Together with arms outstretched, we indicate a circumference, to measure how large this particular circle happens to be. There are no dualities, nothing is really polarized, once we place it within a larger circular space — valley wide, global, and beyond.

I stand in the center, in my womb, the still point of my turning world. Circular orbits surround me, concentric. Each a cycling planetary energy, each one including, enclosing the next. There is no end to it. Space reaches out — and in — forever.

Lighting pierces the night sky. My hands reach out and up into space — forever. My feet press down, to the mother, firmly — and she presses back. Through my womb I direct the light from sky to earth and refract it, in rainbow colors, to spread in each of the four directions and all points in between.







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2 Responses to A.K. Reader: Conceptual Repatterning, Saturn/Uranus in Sagittarius, Part IV

  1. Annie, I absolutely love this deep discussion. Here is my reflection tidbit: HORSE and GHOST DANCE
    Suzanne Lewis
    I’d received a writing and photo from an online Storyteller, Mark Watts, on the site called Cowbird. The photo that greeted me was of a Tibetan Horse race celebration, a panoramic colorful snapshot of this ancient sacred community horse celebration. In a crescendo of insight, I heard “Who can own the origins of the magnificent relationship of the horse to its community.” I have been a devotee to the mythic, mighty symbolism of the horse, the one that represents the high feminine, deep loyalty, great strength, grounded—but most importantly, the one who would break its heart in order to meet the needs of its master.
    The horse is a revered component of my spiritual community, visible and invisible. This early morning’s meditation demands I remember my first horse ceremony (on Earth). In the late 90’s I received an invite through the Indigenous Peoples “telegraph system” to a ceremonial gathering in Northern Montana to share in sacred ceremonies. The invite inferred that Wisdom Keepers from North to South would come and offer their Medicine Bundles, sacred community medicine. The message inferred the possibility that the GHOST DANCE Ceremony might happen.
    For a long, long time I’d been studying and learning all I could regarding the Ghost Dances in the late 1800’s when the Whites rounded up and drove the Native People onto “God forsaken” reservations. A holy messenger was reported to have appeared carrying and delivering sacred information and prayers to honor those who had died, giving their lives for the sake of their people (the great give away). The land based people snuck off their “prison” and met in hidden places in the middle of the night where they would circle, pray, sing and dance with threat of severe punishment. Hundreds of dancers adorned in white with sacred symbols of promise that they would always honor and remember the “ghost dancers”.
    It was prophesized that the Ghost Dancers would return at a time of great chaos and crisis in the White Material, greedy, arrogant, abusive world. The ghost dancers would step in, reappear. The time of “if the elders/wisdom keepers will speak the young will listen.” The Ghost Dancers will bring eternal, natural truths/laws of being in good relations with all the family of life, light and nature.
    My only child, an engineer student at U of I, would rendezvous with me to help drive me to the far North location. In 1987 a twelve year old boy, walked away from his mother’s spiritual life pilgrimage after being traumatized during an event I sponsored called Dance Awake the Dream/Harmonic Convergence. Our ceremonial leader, Brooke Medicine Eagle, the vision holder for the long dance ceremony asked my son to hold the form for the masculine alongside the eldest male. The elder male had Alzheimers and was unable to step w/ my son to initiate the dance as the Eldest woman, Brooke and I initiated the feminine steps. Brooke saw the plight of broken masculine/warrior and put the promise of a healthier male onto my son. My son stepped for the masculine alone surrounded by over 500 dancers. It blew him away too much energy. This is such an important snippet, step in the movement of visioning a balanced masculine and feminine.
    But back to the Montana Ceremony and Horses. Today as I reflect, there is total amazement that I’ve had such a rich life involved with land based people sharing their ancient oral traditions and ceremonies. Remembering following the map and arriving at the high mountain meadow and being aware of hundreds of beings responding to the call, converging, respectfully and honoring the wisdom keepers, ceremonial leaders, the dancers and the community. Learning how to be present and participate in a destined exchange.
    The first ceremony we were invited to join was the Dance of the Deer, with Brent Secunda, a Peruvian wisdom keeper. Drums, flutes, calling, instruction and committed intention were required before we stepped the trance dance. For those like myself with a spiritual gift of “far seeing”, sometimes called Shamanism, our first training assignment is to commit to spend an hour a day in nature. We are to learn good relations with all of nature’s family whether it be the wind, trees, water, frogs, flowers, butterflies, rocks, winged ones, etc. We learn to mimic, become one, alert to these “powers and presence”.
    The Deer family also is part of my internal spiritual strengths. Deer is associated with the South on the Great Wheel home of the Healer, the Mother Earth connected to heightened sensory awareness.
    I loved the Deer Dance, it was so natural the leaping and turning and with grace and ease. My son, once trapped in the Dance Awake the Dream ceremony, was the lone wolf, invisible at the edge of the forest clearing, silent and watchful. After the drums ended this dance, we promenaded to the community of white haired elders, wrapped in shawls and scarves, sitting in folding chairs circling the dance arena. One beaming, brown deeply terrained face after another showered this dancer with gratitude. Hands touching hands, they cried “Oh thank you, we saw your love and enthusiasm. Thank you for dancing for us.” This was my first connection with the likes of the 13 Indigenous Grandmothers advocacy.
    The second day of ceremony in the early morning hours a messenger came to our camp stating the Ghost Dance Bundle carrier had died, but the Ghost Dance had occurred.
    Then came the evening ceremony and the mysterious Horse Ceremony. The picture of the Tibetan Horse Race and the prose mirror my remembering of the eternal, ancient Horse Honoring. The community makes a great circle and then the horses and riders display their fanciest strength, agility, speed, horse/man team work, maneuvering and counting coup. Since I am not of that clan and there was only sensory interpretation and participation; it was an experience rather than an oral teaching.
    The Community cheers and supports the skills and talents displayed in this fancy horse dance. Now I treasure this stimulated historical HORSE memory. Simultaneously the Tibetans live this ancient, high feminine, honoring as a way of spiritual life in ceremony.

    • Ann Kreilkamp says:

      Thanks so much for this reflection on the HORSE in Tibetan culture, Suzanne. It reminds me of my experiences recently in Siberia and Mongolia. People in touch with the land, and the land includes the horse. And yes, you are living a wild, shamanic, magical life! We are so fortunate to be here on earth now, during this great quickening of all that is alive.


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